


art student au

by opemjamjar



Series: The Spellbinding Art Of Human Anatomy [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Anxiety, Art Student Katsuki Yuuri, Art Student Victor Nikiforov, Biker!Yuuri, Christophe Giacometti is a Good Friend, Dealing With Vicchan's Death, Depression, Don’t copy to another site, Eventual Smut, Ex-toxic friendship, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Non-Linear Narrative, San Francisco, Slow Burn, Speedrun Slowburn, Supportive Victor Nikiforov, Unreliable Narrator, non-sexual nudity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2020-10-27 12:03:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20760059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opemjamjar/pseuds/opemjamjar
Summary: What artists of all kinds tend to have in common is that they’re naïve; they’re desperate-- running after the beauty they see in the world, trying to capture the uncontainable in tangible, but sorely inadequate mediums. Sometimes they succeed.University is a torrid enough affair for both Viktor and Yuuri without the loss each of them carry. Nevertheless, between the lingering scent of paint thinner and all the charcoal stained newsprint, they find that there's always a good in the bad, even if it takes a while to get there.





	1. Breif Foreword & Acknowledgements

**Author's Note:**

  * For [feelskilledthefangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feelskilledthefangirl/gifts).
**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are some of my thoughts on this project and did not wish to clutter the initial notes of the first chapter, so decided to put it all in one place here. Go to the ‘next chapter’ to skip straight to the story. This is more for my assigned human anyway. If you are MysticEmerald, then hullo! I bring offering of fic and fruits in a cornucopia, because I’m so tardy it’s already autumn. Happy holidays. ⚘

Greetings. This fic is part of the Victuuri Summer Loving gift exchange and my assigned human is the lovely [MysticEmerald](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feelskilledthefangirl). ❄❄❄

I was given the following prompts:  
#1 College AU  
#2 Syfy/Fantasy AU  
#3 Police/Firefighter AU

I latched onto the police/firefighter one immediately, because I love crime and action-type stories, and especially mysteries. It was perfect! ⅓ match, I thought, because regarding the rest, I’m mostly neutral-positive for college/syfy/fantasy AUs, whether it be reading or writing. Of the three, the most familiar would be fantasy, and the least would be college, where I’ve read fics in other fandoms, but not this one, really, with any type of school setting.

I had a couple of different ideas at first, but finally settled on the idea of a casefic that would be set in St. Petersburg. I spent the next two months researching and planning this, and also studying mystery/crime genre writing. Ideas came in bits and pices, but the full plot finally clicked mid to end August. 

I started working on it, only to find that I was too anxious to properly write because of the self-imposed pressure that I had to finish writing all of this and it had to be perfect in the span of two to three weeks. Writing mystery or crime takes a very precise manner of writing. I faltered.

I decided to start from scratch (around 30/31st Aug at this point) which brings me back to the other prompts. I was drawing a blank until by pure chance, I came across an anime called _Doukyuusei_. Youtube recommendations sometimes change your life. Anyway, if you’ve never heard of it, it’s a slice-of-life highschool gay romance manga/anime.

It was perfect, because I knew college AU was one of the options on the list, and this gave me the sudden inspiration to write for a school-based setting. It was a complete switch, going from a high-suspense angstfest bonanza to a slow-paced, sweet thing of softness, but maybe I needed some fresh air.

I’d already written 10k for the fire AU by the time I decided to switch, and the whole thing has been comfortably shelved for the time being. (I still love it enough to finish it, just after this project and without the pressure of deadlines.) I ended up writing a fresh 15k+ for the college AU. It was supposed to be a short fluffy piece on Viktor and Yuuri, slice-of-life style. It sort of still is, but it developed a case of plot-itis and I’ve fallen in love with this version of these two enough to enjoy where it all ended up going.

Somewhere in the beginning, while still figuring out the mood of this piece, I was rewatching Snow White and the Huntsman as well, (order of events of all of the ideation mostly forgotten now); in between that and youtube recommending me the singer AURORA on a whim, I was debating turning the whole thing into an urban fantasy piece with parallel worlds, or even indulging in the idea of a victuuri Snow White AU, but the ideas were too big and complex to deliver in a short span of time, which was the problem in the first place, so I <del>took a cold shower</del> did the sensible thing of sticking to one blithing genre and just getting on with writing it already.

In general, I’m someone who prefers to completely finish and edit a fic, multi-chaptered or otherwise, before I post it. This one however, it’s already been so long (and past deadline) and it’s still not yet done (I’d say we’re 70-90% of the way there) that I decided to just go ahead already. Because I really want to gift it to my person already. ♡♡♡

I already know the exact plot and how it ends and everything. I’ll be posting it as I finish each section. This is very much a WIP until then. ⛏⛏⛏ To think I had the temerity at the beginning of July to be all _oh! I’ll even make drawings for this if I have time!_

That said, you know, I’ve been having a really good time doing all of this. It’s been fun planning and writing. It’s taken up more of my time and thinking than I thought it would, and I’m not complaining. I have you and your prompts to thank for that. I never pegged myself someone who’d be this deep into AUs. I kinda like writing canon/post-canon crack. But this has been immensely fun, and has pushed me a fair bit in my capabilities as a writer and I think I’m better off for it, so again, thank you.

I didn’t know you before this project but a person’s ao3 betrays the obsidian depths of their soul, hiding bits of themselves in words, deep within paragraphs of gratuitous smut. Wait, where are you going, don’t leave me I was just joki--

+

Some gratitude things, (not in any order of importance) because so many wonderful people have helped me with various things along the way, that have made this journey so much more enjoyable--

❅ Thank you to the lovely mods who’ve hosted and managed this event for all your work, it’s been a grand time.

❅ A certain family member of mine, who’s always been there for me, and good-naturedly put up with my obsession and passions even though they’re not in the whole fandom scene, and given me ideas/ helped me see things from a different point of view when planning these things, which has been extremely invaluable to me.

❅ [postingpebbles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/postingpebbles/), (also a mod) who has so graciously allowed me to scream at her over the course of the project.

❅ [victuurikatsu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/victuurikatsu/), I bring you love and warmth and peace-foretelling birdsong. You know why.

❅ [belovedstill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedstill/), for the constant kindness, reassurance, and support on snippets and progress. Of course, there’s also the three hour call in which you so wonderfully helped me fix my fire AU plot which was held together by a couple of spongebob plasters.

❅ [misguidedLight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DuendeJunior/) <del>for helping me with my Spanish homework</del> for all the kind words of encouragement, especially in the later stages of everything. Immensely grateful for the riveting and insightful conversation on old men, gendered nouns, and unnecessary saintly references. You have done me a great service.

❅ [opalescentlesbiian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pancake2/), your enthusiasm and engagement with this AU have been both very encouraging and flattering, especially because I was a little worried in the beginning. You even so kindly looked through one of the sections for me, bless. I also sincerely enjoy our sprints together. It feels like there’s someone writing alongside me, which makes it so much less lonely an affair.

❅ [QuadruplyYours](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuadruplyYours/), [Agasthiya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agasthiya/), and [opalescentlesbiian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pancake2/), thank you so, so, much for your help with the summary. All of you are lifesavers.

Finally, I’m always grateful to the lovely folks over in the WWV discord server. Everyone’s so sweet and supportive all the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, folks, mind the sink on your way out. There are no handlebars.


	2. Prologue: San Francisco de Asis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name of the series is the title of the fascinating TED talk by Vanessa Ruiz, titled [The Spellbinding Art Of Human Anatomy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M_X0uwAG2Jc).   
**Content warning regarding link: the talk is about medical illustrations and the study of human anatomical art, and the immediate thumbnail you may come across includes artistic depiction of viscera. If you are uncomfortable with this, do not click this.**
> 
> Stanzas at the start and the end are the lovely lyrics of [San Francisco by The Mowgli's](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8RZqPq1-1Tw).
> 
> ❅ Yuuri and Viktor are both 24 and 28 respectively in this, as in canon.  
❅ This fic takes place in the city of San Francisco, USA.  
❅ Tags will be updated as I go along, so please be mindful. No MAWs will suddenly appear however, so don’t worry about that.  
❅ Yuuri’s (struggle with) mental health is portrayed rather explicitly, please step away for some calming music, chocolate, or talk to someone if it brings up unpleasant feelings, or if this fic in general troubles you because of this. I promise he slowly learns to manage it better, and they do live happily ever after.  
❅ Unbeta-ed. All mistakes are my own. May be beta-ed at a later time.

+

_I've been in love with love_

_And the idea of something binding us together_

_You know that love is strong enough_

_I've seen time tell tales about that systematic drug_

_Yeah, that heart that beats as one_

_It's collectively unconsciously composed_

+

Prologue: _San Francisco de Asis_  


He stood along the coast of Lands End, the ruins of the Sutro Baths behind him. The waves danced relentlessly from both sides of a mountainous rock nestled firmly at the edge of the shore. On bare feet, he walked parallel to the ever-shifting waterline. The bottom of his khaki pants were rolled up half heartedly, even thought the fabric was wet up to his knees already, clinging. The unremarkable white button up shirt he was wearing flapped in the wind, as did the mop of messy raven hair atop his head. The shirt remained untucked, unbuttoned at the top and bottom both just a little, and also undone at the sleeve cuffs. Violent shivers rocked his chest from every cold gust that the ocean breathed upon a malnourished frame, his nose already watering from the chill. 

Nature had not yet decisively released its hold on summer, the fog appearing in fits still as it waned in its volume and concentration, succumbing to the inevitability of an autumn that would stubbornly come to pass. Right then, the sky was still verily a grey expanse that blanketed everything beyond the great rock, a sublime impersonation of the dead of summer, when the Golden Gate Bridge itself would pull a Houdini on its citizens. It was thick enough that it devoured even Seal Rocks, which sat not too far out in the waters. One could only spot the silhouettes of black and white, the pelicans and seagulls that dotted their flight across the bleak heavens, could hear their desperate cries over the raging saltwater below. 

_The season of dying_, the young man thought, observing the seawater angrily erase away yet another pair of his footprints in the sand until there was no evidence he had walked upon the seashore at all, save for the fact that he was still standing there. The cruel season here was no dramatic white blanket trapping everyone in little warm spaces with mugs of hot chocolate in hand. Here, the homeless would hope their meager belongings were rainproof as the sun would begin to nurse a very London shyness, the Pacific winds not too monstrously different from their summer counterparts. 

This winter in particular would bring none good, he decided-- no, _knew_. 

Alone. _Alone._ No, he was not. Belatedly, he realised there was another fool upon that beach hugged by frigid weather, sitting some ways back on the rocks he’d climbed down to get here; they were strumming a guitar that sobbed like broken heartstrings. Behind them, his eyes trailed the well worn path of rock and dusty steps, the remnants of the old bath that now housed the various birds that bathed in the grimy, duckshit-filled, green water. 

There was little else of interest. The sounds of the sea faded away for one ephemeral moment, as the guitar’s lonely singing made its melancholy known. He picked up a stray stick, fairly long, and dragged it about the sand, drawing haphazard lines of utterly no meaning at all. Eventually, the crashing of the waves returned to flood his senses, the guitar lost to the din. He threw the stick out to sea as far as he could muster. (It was not very much. In his defence, his bones ached the anthem of fatigue.) 

A dead jellyfish rested atop the creamy sands. He squatted by it, and watched it with eyes equally devoid of life. 

It was time to go. The guitaring fool was long gone, and he himself was starting to tire of the mock-indifference bravado against the wind. 

\+ 

His soles felt every grain of sand and jagged stone underfoot as he made his way up those flights of dusty stairs, dry shoes in hand. The carpark was empty, save a few cars sparsely dotting the asphalt, and a secondhand Kawasaki. He pulled out his helmet and gloves from the tailcase, sitting down on the road by the bike to put on his shoes. He stayed there a moment, leaning against the sturdy thing, cross legged. 

Alas, alas-- One could only procrastinate so long before the worry of catching cold forced you to move. Then again, the consideration voiced itself not in his own tongue, but in his mother’s. That, finally, had him donning the helmet and tugging on the gloves with as much enthusiasm as a toddler preparing to head to school. He had elected to leave immediately without even bringing any of his riding kit. He regretted it now, feeling a heaviness settle in the pit of his stomach at the anticipation of riding back in just the wet clothes on his back. Perhaps he _had_ been hasty. He buttoned up his cuffs and collar. 

Swinging his leg over the bike, he kicked out the stand from under it, nearly losing his balance. His heart, too, careened in that moment. A jolt of awareness broke through the fog that had also settled within his own mind as it did without. That brought him more clarity than the icy seawater spray to the face. He couldn’t have that. If he dropped his vehicle at any of the stops or red lights, he wasn’t sure he had the strength to pick it up in his current state. 

He rolled his shoulders in a quick stretch, clenching and unclenching his hands, stretching his fingers in a quick wave on the handles. Taking in a deep, lungful of fog, he keyed the engine to life. It growled like a beast risen from slumber, gauge needles jumping to life in the cockpit before him, and he shut the visor on his helmet with a definitive, plasticky _click_. 

The distant cries of seagulls could be heard around the periphery of the rumbling machine. He took one last look seawards, surveying the V of a flock of pelicans in their September transit. Finally, he kicked off the tar, pulling out of the carpark and onto familiar roads leading into the city. 

+

_I lost my head in San Francisco_

_Waiting for the fog to roll out_

_But I found it in a rain cloud_

_It was smiling down_

+


	3. from the tip of the pen(insula) & other stories

** MID Y1S2: from the tip of the pen(insula) **

The first time Viktor had spoken to him, it was in the toilet. Yuuri had always had the worst luck when it came to these things. After class, he had brought his brushes to rinse off in the toilet. The sinks in the classroom were taken (and the others were taking forever and he might have really wanted to get out of there.) Such it was, that he was watching the colours bleed off of his brushes and spiral away into the abyss below, when it happened. 

There were four brushes and he was almost done. One, two, three, and-- 

_Plink._

Yuuri registered it in a lag; the feeling of the brush slipping between his fingers catching him off guard. The sink drain had the standard two to three holes. His brush had managed to fall straight through one of them. He peered into the sink, face impassive at first. The dregs of despair in his gut presented themselves after about a minute. You could see the tip of the brush about half a centimetre under the metal cover, just out of reach. 

This was how he had been found, frowning at the sink basin, when Viktor had approached. Yuuri was so caught up in his momentary dismay, (more honestly, he would be reminded of this not-so-momentary dismay every single time he used this sink on the second floor outside of the row of classrooms henceforth), that he failed to notice. 

'What are you looking at?' Viktor Nikiforov had said over his shoulder. Yuuri nearly had a heart attack. He straightened immediately, the back of his head crashing into Viktor's chin. Viktor's hands flew to his face and after a moment’s wincing, he started laughing. Yuuri's hands were also immediately on the back of his head because _that hurt damnit_, but he was not laughing. Why would anyone step so close into his personal space there was another blithing sink right beside-- 

His eyes widened upon realising who it was and he just froze, hands on his head. 

'That hurt,' Viktor said, but he was still chuckling. Yuuri wanted to say something. He often wished he had said something. But no, Katsuki Yuuri fled like the coward he was, remaining three brushes in hand, and hid in the classroom for a good twenty minutes until his heart stopped feeling like it was trying to escape his thoracic cavity. 

\+ 

** Y2S1, W1, WEDNESDAY NIGHT: darling, when i fell for you, i shattered my patella (and my tibia was bruised for days) **

The second time Viktor spoke to him happened much later. There were two more poses till the end of the night, but Yuuri was going to leave after this one. It was a room full of twenty or so people. These twenty or so people were suffering at present. A life drawing session was coming to an end and there was a very naked man in the centre, sitting as still as a rock. A slightly trembly and uncomfortable-from-sitting-at-a-slight-incline-against-a-hard-and-uncomfortable-chair-for-half-an-hour rock. But Yuuri was not looking at him. 

Yuuri was looking at Viktor Nikiforov, the master’s student who was bringing the model to life on the paper before him with nothing but the grace of a meekly willow charcoal. In his hands, it was a wand that rendered the perfect illusion of life in the two dimensional plane. Yuuri could never sound too grandiose. That was just who Viktor was, and Yuuri had spent the better part of this semester doodling Viktor in his notebook, operating very much in the clandestine like some lovesick teenager. Said notebook may or may not have contained several scrawls of ‘Yuuri Nikiforov’ in the back pages. If anyone asked, he was getting into calligraphy. 

Yuuri followed the lines of Viktor’s face as he had done so many times before. Yet, each freckle would present itself anew and Yuuri’s $2 ink pen would never begin to dare capture the intensity in Viktor’s eyes as he focussed on his creations. His aquiline nose formed a fetching silhouette at this angle and Yuuri paused a moment to sigh. If only Viktor ever smiled long enough for Yuuri to capture it. His little doodle operations offered little variance on the poses and angles, but any more and he would be overstepping that blurred line between artistic secret admirer and creepy stalker. 

As he tried to rest the pen on the book in his lap, it slipped from his grasp. (Objects slipping through his fingertips, tragically just out of reach, seemed to be a running theme in his life.) It clattered loudly in the silent room. Quick glances were thrown his way, mostly reacting to the noise and nothing more. They were preoccupied, after all. The scrawling sounds of mark-making continued to fill the air. 

There was one, however, who turned and did not look away. Viktor and Yuuri met each others' gaze for a moment, while Yuuri fumbled at the floor for his pen without looking. Yuuri broke the line of sight first. Quickly grabbing and testing his pen, he already knew that it would not write anymore. Frustratingly, it was one of those that stopped functioning if you dropped it _even once_ and Yuuri let out another sigh, this one laced with frustration, taking that as a sign to pack up for the night. He was swift; he hadn’t brought a lot with him. 

His skin prickled from the sense he was still being watched. He exited the room quickly, and the fresh air of the outside corridor was a welcome respite. His footsteps echoed in the empty space as he marched out in a fervour to get away.  


Taking in a lungful of air, he reached out an arm to place a hand on the cool wall to his side. The centralised air conditioning felt less imposing outside of the classroom. Yet, Yuuri felt his coat not thick enough. The model seemed to be managing well enough back in there. Dropping his arm again, he carried on. 

The sequence played out in his mind. Towards the lobby of the second floor he would go, down the stairs, and out of the university’s art department building. Into the cold night, and then to bed. Personally, it was yet too early for bed. But still, to bed he would go. 

He was about to take the first step down the stairs, when-- 

‘Excuse me! Hang on a moment, please, Katsuki Yuuri!’ His head whipped back so fast. So that was what Viktor Nikiforov’s voice sounded like saying his name outside of his fantasies. 

‘Wha--’ In lieu of responding, Yuuri tripped on that first step. His hands gripped the railings like a lifeline. They were all that kept him from taking the highway to hell. His leg made contact with the steps not hard enough to crack a kneecap by any earnest measure, but enough for Yuuri to never consider Georgian ballet in this lifetime. 

Viktor was over in an instant, frowning hard. ‘Are you alright?’ He sounded bothered enough for the both of them. 

‘I’m fine,’ Yuuri replied, grimacing. 

Viktor had his hands under Yuuri’s arms in an instant, helping him to the bench outside one of the many classrooms to the side of the lobby. Yuuri was grateful it was not the classroom where the life drawing session was happening. 

Yuuri was not fine, however. Viktor Nikiforov was on his knees before him. Handsome, befreckled Viktor with the pretty eyelashes. (A great tip for getting your crush to notice you is to shank your shankbone.) Yuuri’s pants were rolled up just past the knee of his hurt leg. Viktor’s fingers tickled the sensitive skin to the sides and backs of his knees. Yuuri’s heart was keeping a steady rhythm, each beat deafening against his eardrums. 

‘Your patella’s fine,’ Viktor said. Yuuri simply stared on, still a bit disbelieving of their present tableau. Viktor pressed a spot that hurt, and Yuuri winced. Did this man even know what he was doing? ‘Just bruises, I’ll get some ice.’ 

\+ 

The two of them remained on the second floor for a while longer, seated side by side on the bench, an ice pack over Yuuri’s knee over the cloth of his pants. 

‘You were inspired by me.’ Yuuri felt disbelief ooze from every pore in his body. 

‘Something in your strokes bleeding with life,’ Viktor explained, bright-eyed, voice in an awed hush. ‘I’ve never seen anything quite like it. Well, maybe I have. Your linework reminds me of Egon Schiele--’ 

Yuuri wanted to scoff at that. It was way higher praise than he deserved. Overall, Viktor Nikiforov sitting here talking to him, praising _his_ work-- he felt like his soul and body were off-synchronisation by about 2 centimetres. Maybe he did fall down the stairs after all and had blacked out completely, and he was dreaming right now. 

‘--I could smell the saltwater from just looking at it. They reminded me of back home, actually!’ 

‘The end of year show, you said,’ Yuuri looked up again, into those blue eyes shimmering with excitement. 

‘Yes, your watercolour series!’ 

‘Huh. I didn’t realise anyone would’ve paid attention to that,’ Yuuri mumbled. Old insecurities seeped into his system like freshly spilt wine on white tablecloth. 

Viktor looked at Yuuri with a curious gleam in his eyes. Yuuri squirmed under the sudden intensity of the gaze. 

‘I submitted my work to the show because Prof Celestino asked me to.’ 

‘Hm, I’m glad he did, then.’ 

Something inside of Yuuri blossomed at those words. He wanted to say, _I’ve been inspired by everything you’ve been doing. You’ve got a very classical style and your anatomy is so perfect it makes me cry. You don’t know how much the words of someone like you mean to someone like me._

Instead, after a pause, he simply said: ‘Thank you--’ 

‘--Yuuuuri,’ Viktor said suddenly, startling Yuuri. He was pouting at him. ‘You stopped using chinese ink, do you know how unhappy that made me? I really used to like watching you, you know?’ 

‘What--’ Yuuri felt the warmth creeping up his neck. 

‘--and you started drawing in your notebooks where no one could see what you were doing!’ That was exactly why he started using his A4 notebooks. 

‘Right, yes, well, that is--’ 

‘--then you stop showing up to these sessions altogether!’ Viktor was leaning into his space now, pout still gracing his lips, and Yuuri found he had instinctively leaned back and away. He took a steadying breath, the accusations ringing loud and clear. 

‘Um, things got--’ _Depressing. My dog died._ ‘--busy. You know how the semester is.’ 

‘I understand.’ Viktor sighed with dramatic flair, his silver fringe falling a little more into his face. He pulled out of Yuuri’s personal space and tapped at the bench with his fingers for a few moments. Yuuri cocked his head to one side, hands fidgeting in his lap. ‘If you’re not busy, might I see you again for this Saturday’s session?’ 

\+ 

** Y2S1, W1, FRIDAY-SATURDAY: depression and lunch i (bright blue eyes that can only meet mine across the room filled with people that are less important than you) **

Yuuri cracked open his eyes to a bleary Friday morning. He pulled on his glasses from beside his pillow, a groan of complaint escaping his lips. There was his lunch, left for him on the desk. It was the usual from Emmy’s: ham and tofu chow mein, seaweed soup, and some smatter of snacks that would last him through the day. 

His phone was also next to the pillow, and he pulled it towards himself to quickly type out a message. 

>>_thanks_

Not a second later, his phone buzzed. 

<<♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡  
<<_welc_

Now, for the next matter. He set down the phone. His limbs felt heavy and even the thought of getting himself to the shower was nettlesome. Alright, compromise: it did not matter what he did after, he would just get up first. 

Yuuri proceeded to spend most of Friday in bed, in various states of wakefulness. 

Nevertheless, when Saturday rolled around, he made the effort to go down to the life drawing session first thing in the morning. That was all that had been on Yuuri’s mind since Wednesday. 

Well before making it to the end of the previous semester, he had stopped bringing the inks in-- his brushes, the board, the portfolio, all as well. He stopped experimenting, and in the end, stopped showing up at all, really. After everything, it’d begun to weigh down heavier than the grief in his heart. Then he had to go and lose that paintbrush, too. 

He had thusly said yes more on impulse than sense, when Viktor had asked him if he’d see Yuuri on Saturday. He could no longer doodle Viktor in his notebook if they were to be drawing side by side. _But they would be drawing side by side._

Despite the models and students that came and went with each passing session, there were some constants. These were the handful of students who were regulars to these, and Yuuri came to take comfort in the familiarity of their presence, even if not a word had been transpired between them. Viktor was one such student, who you could know with the most absolute certainty that he would be found in the drawing room. 

There he was now, arched over his work on the floor, charcoal stained fingers dancing across newsprint laid out before him. He made his warmup strokes in all directions, this way, that way, smooth single stroke circles-- 

‘You’re going to get a backache like that,’ Yuuri commented, surprised by his own audaciousness. 

‘So I’ve been told!’ Viktor exclaimed with a sigh, stretching his back in an arch, as though to prove the point. Yuuri took a snapshot in his mind, Viktor’s lithe form mid-stretch. Shame... he would be far more motivated today if Viktor was the model, clothed or otherwise. Yuuri frowned at himself, what was he even _thinking_. Focus, focus. 

Viktor smiled at him. ‘You came.’ 

_You asked._ Yuuri smiled in return greeting, a small and awkward thing. He set his bag and portfolio down beside Viktor’s spot. 

Some curious looks were strewn their way. Discomfort crawled like spiders just under his skin; it came in subtle waves as he discreetly steadied his breathing. Viktor, on the other hand, either didn’t notice or didn’t care. It was only natural, he must be used to the attention by now. His skill had not gone unnoticed in the department and there was no shortage of people that admired him, idolised him, loved him. Viktor could be found at the gallery openings, art shows, and other various events that the department hosted, sipping gracefully from a glass as he engaged with professors and students alike. The guests were of course, also, charmed by his smiling and flirty demeanor. 

Yuuri tried to not think about what it looked like, him settling beside Viktor with the temerity of assumed familiarity. For all that popularity, Viktor played a lot of things close to the chest, and as far as Yuuri knew, the flirting never went more than just that. He always left the venue alone. While often spotted with students visibly excited just to be talking to him, he definitely had the reputation of an untouchable god. 

‘I haven’t done inks in a while,’ Yuuri muttered, more to himself than Viktor, as he walked away to get an eisel. From the periphery of his vision, he knew that the eyes followed him. That helped the nerves, it did. 

When he returned, Viktor was pulling out a fresh sheet, and a couple more charcoals to lay out beside himself. ‘I know the feeling,’ he laughed. ‘It takes a while to get back into the flow, and until then, ugly splotches and wonky proportions.’ 

‘Tell me about it,’ Yuuri said dryly. ‘I remember you working with oils at one point?’ 

‘Black and white got boring and I needed a change,’ Viktor said. He’d finished setting up and folded his legs into a cross legged sit, turning to watch Yuuri set up his space. ‘Preparation and the cleanup afterwards were a pain, but the colours were beautiful.’ 

‘Oh, they really were.’ Yuuri said. He made to say more, but then thought better of it. Viktor’s smile widened into something akin to the wholesomeness of strawberry jam on bread on a bright summer day. He brought both his hands up to his cheeks and held them there for a moment, positively swooning at the compliment. 

Yuuri glanced away, but he was smiling too, heart doing a little jig in his chest. They chattered for a bit longer as the model showed up and got ready for the session. 

Being a Saturday, and early at that, it was always a smaller group than Wednesday’s, and Yuuri recognised at least one or two more that he used to see with clockwork regularity at these. 

The session started. 

Yuuri let his hands work from memory. The beginnings of a habitual nervousness flipped his stomach. Between the clamping of the paper to the eisel, diluting the ink, and laying down quick test strokes, he took a few deep breaths. The softness of the brush tip made him flutter inside, the way the water and ink mix clung to the bristles. He turned to say something to Viktor, only to find Viktor’s eyes already on him. Yuuri’s eyes widened just a smidge, and a guilty look flashed across Viktor’s face, or maybe Yuuri imagined it. It was so quick, and Viktor’s expression was already schooled back into his usual laidback smiling face. 

Yuuri blinked. He’d forgotten what he’d wanted to say. That was just as well, Viktor turned away; he had not yet started. 

‘I feel like I would rather just watch you paint today,’ Viktor said, a hand resting on his face, one finger on his lip, eyes on the blank sheet of newsprint before him. 

Yuuri felt the urge to tell Viktor to stop touching his face with his charcoal covered hands, he was getting it all over himself. ‘Don’t. Too much pressure.’ 

Viktor sighed, and picked up his charcoal stick with his fingers so lithe. 

The warmup sets passed before a short break. Yuuri twiddled the brush in his hands. The shapes before him were of varying degrees of acceptable. A torso too long here, some gangly limbs there. Good grief, what was that foreshortening? 

‘Lovely,’ said Viktor, standing beside him. Their shoulders almost touched. 

‘It’s… passable,’ Yuuri finished, lips a thin line of dissatisfaction. Viktor merely chuckled. ‘I haven’t done this in a while. The anatomy is rubbish,’ Yuuri continued. Viktor’s smile faded a little, but his eyes stayed fixed on Yuuri’s work. Yuuri stared at a stray spot on the canvas. 

‘It’s just warmup, Yuuri,’ Viktor said, lifting a hand and pointing with his little finger at one of his sketches. ‘And this one is just bursting with energy, I love it. All of your sketches have this dynamic flair, that’s a wonderful thing, you know?’ 

Yuuri sighed. He uttered something along the lines of polite gratitude. 

The timer called for the next set, ending that conversation. Yuuri glanced over to the newsprints on the floor, but Viktor had already begun flipping them aside and over to make room for the next round. 

A pattern emerged. During the sets, Yuuri was sure Viktor was glancing over from time to time. Might’ve been because their eyes met, both of them catching the other in the act more than once. Quickly, they would both avert their eyes. 

Ambivalence mingled in his chest like the contents of a lava lamp. The nostalgia of finding peace in losing himself in these sessions, and the refreshing quality of now attempting this by Viktor’s side as opposed to watching him from across the room-- He was too worked up to drown himself in his inks. The presence of watchful eyes and Viktor’s sudden friendliness, whatever he said inspired it, made his mind wander, bubbling restlessly like boiling water. 

Another set ended. They spoke a little, commenting on each others’ work. Another set started. Yuuri’s upper arm felt the consequences of being out of practice, standing at an eisel. Constantly shifting and fidgeting, he was an antithesis to the model’s excellent impersonation of a statue, save for the slow rise and fall of the breaths in her belly. 

Occasionally, a student would stop by their little bubble, chatting with Viktor and commenting on his work. Sometimes they brought their notebook and exchanged words on each others’ work. This was par for the course. Yuuri would often wonder what Viktor and the others would talk about. Now, he was close enough to hear, albeit while standing awkwardly to the side and decisively avoiding eye contact. 

He learnt something in these observations. That Viktor found something worthy of praise in every work. That there was a kindness in his eyes that all the gossip and enigma surrounding him somehow missed. Yuuri really wanted to draw a portrait of this Viktor, the one with the smile that bloomed crow’s feet in the corner of his eyes. 

Someone else had approached now. Her name was Ronnie, if his memory served him right. One of the regulars. A final year student, also in illustration, like Yuuri. She had a notebook with her, filled with her work, flipped open as Viktor stood to her side. They were now looking at it together. From here, Yuuri could see that she had used a brush pen. 

The inerasability of a brush pen proved as similarly unforgiving as Yuuri’s own inks, albeit with much less value variation in the end result. He admired the way the contrast brought each of her sketches to life. He tried to not think of his own inadequacy. 

Ronnie finally turned to look at him. She smiled, an edge of politeness to the thing, and Yuuri immediately felt as undressed as the model was. He grabbed his water cup and headed to the sink, grateful for the excuse of changing out the water. 

He returned closer to the end of the long break, when Ronnie had already returned to her spot, and Viktor was setting up for the final pose. Yuuri took a deep breath. 

The session ended. Bubbles of chatter broke apart the silence of the session the moment the final timer went off, as the few other students began talking, clattering things about, cleaning up. The model remained in position for just a fraction longer, then began slowly stretching, testing movement in each limb, unfurling ever so slowly like fresh bracken in spring. 

There was a buzzing in Yuuri’s fingertips and a near imperceptible headache blooming at the side of his head. The thought of the safe nest of his bed trickled into his mind. He also realised he had been frowning, and began to relax the muscles on his face, squeezing his eyes shut tight and opening them again. He slouched, feet aching from the sudden exertion of standing so long. So much of the anatomy was gone wrong on his paper. The blotches of uneven water and ink laughed at his attempts at the medium. Yuuri looked up to see the model take her time donning her robe, and he wondered how he had managed to make someone so elegant look so broken. 

‘Oh, Yuuri, that’s beautiful,’ Viktor sighed, looking at the final 30 minute pose that they had been working on. Some of the tightness in his chest loosened at those words. ‘I love the linework here,’ Viktor said, pointing at his paper again, at the hips of the model who had been reclining for that last pose. Yuuri took a step back from the eisel, cocking his head at his own work. 

‘Well, yours looks ethereal, as always,’ Yuuri commented, turning away to look at Viktor’s handiwork on the floor. ‘The way you’ve done the gradient of the shadow on the back.’ Viktor smiled, a beautiful heart shaped thing. 

‘You think so? I love working on the muscle groups here--’ He pointed in the general vicinity of the upper back of his drawing. 

‘It shows.’ Yuuri squatted beside Viktor’s piece, flipping the brush in his hand such that the non-bristle end was pointing out and held it above the group of back muscles. ‘The way you’ve drawn the shoulders here-- it makes her look so strong.’ 

Viktor looked so immensely pleased with himself, and Yuuri never wanted to take his eyes off of him. 

_Plip._

‘Ah. Ah, _ah, ah, ah--_’ 

‘It’s okay, Yuuri--’ 

‘I am so sorry!’ 

‘Yuuri, listen it’s--’ 

It was not okay. That brush he had been holding out like an idiot-- the ink had dripped off right onto Viktor’s work. Yuuri retracted the brush immediately, looking up at Viktor in despair. 

‘Tissues, I’ve got tissues beside my water cup and--’ and Viktor was squatting beside Yuuri now; he rested his hands on Yuuri’s shoulders gently. 

‘It’s okay,’ Viktor said, and despite the tone of finality in his voice, it was not unkind. 

‘But--’ 

‘It was an accident, it’s not a big deal, and this is all just practice anyway. It’s newsprint. The ink’s already bled a big spot onto it anyway,’ Viktor said, the epitome of well-adjusted. 

‘God I’ve been so clumsy all week. I really feel awful about this.’ 

‘If I made it once, I can make it again,’ Viktor shrugged, giving Yuuri’s shoulders a light squeeze. ‘Speaking of which,’ he continued, in a sing-song voice. 

‘What?’ 

‘I’ll see you this coming Wednesday?’ 

\+ 

** Y2S1, W2 to W9: artiste anatomica **

The next couple of weeks passed in a blur, the passing of each day feeling longer than each week as a whole. Time, perceived by the college student, was an unintelligible liminal space, the only known factor being that it was in limited supply. 

In spite of that, it had become a habit rather quickly. Yuuri found himself willing to show up to these sessions if Viktor was there. (If Viktor continued to want him there.) At one point, they exchanged numbers. Viktor appeared to be content spending this time with Yuuri, and in between these sessions, they began to send art and art history memes to each other. It had settled into something as comfortable as the summer fog would over the city each year (we’re pushing November right now). 

For the first time in a long while, Yuuri found it easier to get out of bed in the mornings. He dreamt of anterior superior iliac spines. The fascinating way in which the human body moved, flesh and bone intermingling in a cacophony of visual delight. Viktor made it feel good again. Made the strokes feel more like play and less like his hand was weighed down by stones; weighed down by the expectations of his own sick mind. Viktor laughed at him, but harboured his own love affair with lumbars and scapulae. 

\+ 

It was the start of one of many such sessions, when the warm up short poses began. Neither Viktor nor Yuuri made a move to mark the paper before them. They regarded each other curiously for a moment, before both breaking into grin. 

‘I thought I could watch you work today,’ Viktor said. 

‘Funny, I had the same idea.’ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The phrase I used for one of the sub-titles **‘bright blue eyes that can only meet mine across the room filled with people that are less important than you’** is a paraphrasing of the lyrics:  
_And those bright blue eyes Can only meet mine across the room filled with people that are less important than you_  
from the song [Love Love Love by Of Monsters And Men](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=beiPP_MGz6I).


	4. sodalis pectoris i & other stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Officer, I understand housing and rental rates in this city are noxiously minging of gentrification, but see here, I have a license; it says ‘CREATIVE’ on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reminder to mind the tags, I’ve tried to include the major ones upfront, but they will still be updated or edited each chapter.

** Y1S1, W14 (POST SEM, END OF YEAR SHOW): sodalis pectoris i (top of my ulna rubbed raw get me out of here) **

Viktor was leaned standing against one of the many decorated cocktail tables, Chris by his side. Upbeat Dave Bartholomew enveloped the art department with gentle persistence despite the din of human chatter. Now, Viktor was always down for some good Bartholomew, certainly more reminiscent of a parlour down in Louisiana than a San Franciscan state university gallery and lobby space, but tonight he was especially grateful it wasn’t the grating symphony of soft classical music, screaming pomp: idea-of. 

‘Amidst the rush and roar of life, O beauty, carved in stone, you stand mute and still, alone and aloof--’ 

_Great Time sits enamoured at your feet and repeats to you:_

‘Well aren’t you Mr Fancypants-Nikiforov.’ Chris raised an eyebrow, twirling the stalk of a champagne glass between his fingers. Viktor’s own glass was empty. 

_“Speak, speak to me, my love; speak, my mute bride!”_

‘Hah.’ 

_But your speech is shut up in stone, O you immovably fair!_

‘You’ve gone full artsy-fartsy.’ This caught Viktor’s attention. His fingers stilled from their drawing little circles across the blue velvety surface. 

‘Have not.’ 

‘Have too. All gussied up and preening like a cockatoo,’ Chris returned, face on the cusp of a smirk, only softened by the glowing rose and lemon lights that haloed the space. Viktor resisted the urge to kick him in the shin. 

‘When in Rome--’ 

‘--didn’t know the Romans recited Rabindranath at art shows.’ 

‘_Rabindranath_, what, you’re on first name basis now?’ 

‘Even thinking of paying him a visit.’ 

‘Thought you were headed way south?’ 

‘Yes, but afterwards. A by-stop.’ 

_Huh_. Viktor made a mental note to ask him for the arrival date again, but that was a long while yet. For the moment, his eyes wandered to all the people gathered in their little groups; many were around the decorated cocktail tables much like themselves, except with plates of food as well along with glasses of their preferred poison, and others were making their rounds to view the students’ works on display. 

‘Right. Anyway, _you_ shared that one. I’m just trying to get into the mood,’ said Viktor. The alcohol in his system was damping his thoughts, energy, will... 

‘Certainly, a little foreplay never hurt anyone--’ 

‘--be decent, you slut.’ His eyes snapped back to Chris’s. 

‘I am a _cultured_ slut. Care for a Gerard Manley Hopkins?’ 

‘Not right now, darling. And frankly, you’ve got no place calling me a snob, for what you are.’ 

Chris pressed his glass to his smile and simply held it there without sipping any of it. ‘Not at all! My kind are snobs by society’s designation. Artists have got that down by inherent quality of being.’ 

‘Wow,’ Viktor deadpanned. ‘Absolutely insightful.’ 

‘It isn’t the school genre without pretentious pseudo-insight and diegetic, faux-symbolic poetry.’ 

He frowned. ‘What?’ 

‘Nothing, dear.’ 

An interval, now. (Of words, not of music.) Not uncomfortable, never, really, not with Chris. Eventually, he reached for his glass, keenly aware of Chris’s eyes trailing his movement through slanted eyes. Nevertheless, he traced a finger around the rim, disappointed that it was empty already. The aching in his feet and legs began to protest more adamantly. Such a long day, even before the show. The vaguest recollection of his professor’s words rang from some memory, buried deep in a haze of exhaustion. He chanced a glance at his wristwatch, craving the moment he could slip out of his suit and into something more comfortable. 

The department hosted multiple events like these. Aside from the students and professors, there were usually visitors too. Gallery openings, gallery closings, visitation of distinguished guests from partner universities-- drinks, food, networking, contacts in the industry... He was not yet in a position to be picky about attendance, even for something like tonight: an internal showcasing of the more remarkable works by the students this year. 

He scanned the area again, his spastic vigilance only rewarding him with frayed nerves. From the beginning, there had been nowhere within the vicinity he could settle where he wouldn’t be accosted by conversation. As it was, the two of them had spent the better half of the evening huddled and faffing at the fringes. 

‘We should take a look at the gallery at some point,’ Chris spoke first. 

‘We should,’ Viktor agreed, finally pushing himself away from the table, readjusting his tie. 

They made their way to the drinks table first, Viktor setting down his empty glass, and Chris doing the same with his mostly untouched drink. Viktor cocked an eyebrow at him. 

‘Doubt the art’s so bad I’d have to be drunk to appreciate it,’ Chris quipped. 

‘That’s not what I--’ 

‘--one of us has to be the designated driver,’ he nodded his head at Viktor’s empty glass. 

‘Fair enough.’ He reached out to help himself to another, when Chris rested his hand gently on Viktor’s wrist. He looked up. 

‘Vitya.’ That light smile never left Chris’s lips, but in an instant, Viktor knew exactly which memory encored in both their minds. 

Chris retracted his hand; Viktor dropped his own. 

Chris let out an airy chuckle, relaxing his shoulders just so. When exactly the tension had made home in his frame that night, Viktor had not noticed, come to think of it. 

‘Poetry of the “is”es,’ Chris said, as though that were the issue. 

‘Oh yeah,’ Viktor replied, resting one arm akimbo, hips contrapposto, ‘alcoholic hepatitis.’ 

‘Steatosis.’ 

‘Fibrosis.’ 

‘Cirrhosis,’ and that was that. 

Viktor rolled his shoulders back in a quick stretch. Chris proffered a hand, and Viktor took it, letting the other lead the way to the gallery. 

\+ 

Not for nothing, these bled of skill, talent, and the countless hours spent in progress, no doubt. Viktor’s appreciation stemmed from the cerebellum, however, not the gut; an undercurrent of anxious energy coursed through him. The two of them had already made one round in the gallery of the upper floor, and were back on the ground floor section again. Chris moved in a lazy amble a few paces behind Viktor, taking in the works no less keenly. 

A group of younger students passed them by, smiling and waving at Viktor in greeting. He smiled back his standard crowd-pleaser smile and hoped they would not stop to chat. Usually he’d be happy to initiate conversation. Tonight, he banked on their hesitant nervousness. He was right, and the two remained unperturbed, merely left with the vestiges of hushed whispers as the group became indistinct from the rest of the crowd. He checked his watch again. Maybe he could slip out in another half hour or so. They’d already stepped away from the heart of the social circle. 

‘Nothing catch your fancy?’ Chris piped up from behind him. 

‘Nothing exciting,’ Viktor responded. 

A chuckle escaped Chris at that. ‘Well, you are a hard one to please.’ 

‘I can’t help it,’ Viktor sighed, turning to face Chris fully. ‘What was the point of my coming here, only to get discouraged so soon? So easily? I can’t have fallen out of love with it already--’ 

‘--I don’t think that’s it, darling,’ Chris said gently, unfazed by Viktor’s melancholy. 

‘The competitiveness, I can take--’ 

‘--if anything, it was worse before, in that regard--’ 

‘--but this _inconsistency!_’ 

In the silence that the outburst left in its wake, an external observer might have mistakenly assumed Chris indifferent. After all, he merely stood there, both hands in the trouser pockets of his rather spiffy suit, head cocked just a smidge. Viktor would have disagreed with said hypothetical external observer, as he looked into the astute, green eyes of the man before him. 

After a moment of respite for contemplation: ‘You just need a spark again.’ 

Viktor huffed, running a hand through his hair. ‘Desperately.’ 

‘And a break.’ 

‘Not yet.’ 

Chris hummed in acknowledgment. And wasn’t this normal for this type of work anyway? Creative motivation and energy was so frustratingly fussy. 

‘It’s been a long year,’ Viktor said, taking a deep breath and glancing round at the works they were surrounded by. 

‘It has,’ Chris agreed, pulling his hands out of his pockets for a good stretch of arms overhead. As he dropped his arms again, both their eyes landed on the framed A1 charcoal illustration gracing the wall to Viktor’s left. 

‘Extraordinary details, that one,’ Chris said, face splitting into an insufferable grin. ‘Alas, still lacking... I don’t know, something that a charcoal drawing could be lacking. Insert artsy-fartsy terms here. Tsk tsk, not dynamic enough. And what is that awful quad. I’m disappointed.’ 

‘I worked hard rendering that quad,’ Viktor pouted. 

‘Well, if you can’t take criticism.’ 

If Chris had been closer, Viktor might’ve made good on that kick to the shin he so often fantasised about. 

After that, they walked around a little more in silence, the stream of people waning. 

Viktor glanced at his wrist. ‘If nothing else, I think we can safely escape. Chris?’ Viktor called, turning around when the other man did not say anything. 

There was a curious twinkle in his eyes, and his face seemed brighter than it had all evening. ‘Maybe there’s one more thing you should look at,’ said Chris. 

‘What are you talking--’ 

‘--behind you, Vitya.’ 

Viktor turned. All at once, the soft gallery lights faded to the sunlit violence of seawater, crashing ashore. It was a series of paintings, all depicting scenes of a family at a beach. A little boy and an older girl were holding hands, spinning around together, footprints dappling a sandy canvas. There was a little dog too, that looked so much like his Makkachin that his heart melted upon the sight of it. An older couple, likely the parents, sat a bit further from the shore, resting on some sort of patterned cloth over the sand. 

Rusty clockwork sputtered to life inside Viktor’s chest, whirring in a frenzy, the teeth of neglect locking with the present for the first time in years. An ocean in turquoise breathed like lungs in the distant past, glinting under rays of sun that breached cloudy masses. The screaming of seagulls came to him right alongside the voice of an older man, words a rush of Russian, indistinct. His feet squelched in the sand as he ran barefoot, taking in deep, the fresh scent of salt. 

‘Good grief,’ Viktor whispered. 

‘I thought as much,’ Chris said from somewhere beside him. 

Viktor squeezed his eyes shut, the fatigue of the evening unplastering itself from his skin, replaced by a visceral memory of sticky salt and sweat, the sand that never washed properly out of the cuff of his pants-- 

His eyes snapped open at the sound of Chris’s voice. But he hadn’t registered a word. 

‘What?’ Viktor turned his head in confusion. Chris was bent slightly, looking at the little gold plaque under the works, where the student’s name and other information about the work were usually found. 

‘The one you want to look for, their name is--’ 

\+ 

** Y1S1, W16, TUESDAY: it does not follow **

<<_How’re the children up in Pinole? Was it today you drove up?_

>>_Good. And yes._

<<_And the old man?_

>>_Also good. Or, well, the usual, in any case. It’s warmer up here._

<<_It’s also overwarm here, thanks for asking._

>>_You’ve been saying that every day since you arrived. Anyway, isn’t it always warm where you are._

<<_Oh my ;)_

>>_you understood what I_  
>>...  
>>_;) ;)_

<<_Although, it’s supposed to be the monsoon season here._

>>_Right._

<<_Alas, mosquitoes..._

>>_My condolences._

<<_Speaking of seasons, you found your person yet?_

>>_No, and what do seasons have to do with any of this._

<<_Absolutely nothing. No?_

>>_Possibility of encounter, but he disappeared before I could talk to him._

<<_So then, a he?_

>>_Yes._

<<_What else?_

>>_Nothing, because winter break is starting, and I won’t be on campus much._

<<_No social media?_

>>_Not that I could find. Not a single thing._

<<_Wow. Some kind of hermit._

>>_Carrying on looking for him when the next sem starts._

<<_Backtracking, what do you mean by ‘possibility of encounter’. Please don’t tell me you’re stalking the poor man._

>>_About that._

>>**Outgoing call**  
→ 44 min, 8 s 

\+ 

** Y1S1, W16, MONDAY: that second floor toilet **

Viktor heard that name again for the second time just outside of the toilet. How utterly surreal. The voices came from somewhere along the inner corridors of the second floor. It was an otherwise quiet late afternoon. The semester was mostly ended, save for students taking refuge in the bowels of the art department, away from the light of the lord, slaving away as the last dregs of deadline consumed their souls.

‘--about the matter of your progress, Yuuri...’ 

He recognised Prof Celestino’s voice, but the other person’s was too soft to catch the words properly. 

‘--so I’ve already spoken to the heads about the arrangement and because of the extensions you might want to--’

Were there many Yuuris in the department? Was this possibly his Yuuri? (It was, he checked the systems later via dubious means. Only one Yuuri in the art department, one Katsuki Yuuri.)

There was no nonchalant way for him to walk down that hallway. No way to scratch the itch of creeping curiosity under his skin. Significantly, the matter of discussion was of course, verily none of his business. It was just as well, therefore, that he should have heard a classroom door open and click shut again, choking whatever bits of conversation he could hear altogether.

He kept the toilet company for an hour. And then two. He’d make a great guardian troll someday. Eventually he walked down that hallway, opening every classroom door on the way. (Self restraint got stuck in traffic, sorry.) Not a soul. Both must have left from the staircase at the back of this side of the building.

+

>>_About that._

>>**Outgoing call**  
→ 44 min, 8 s 

<<_He was the one that got away._

>>_Shut up Chris._

\+ 

** Y2S1, W1, SATURDAY: the unconsciously self centred perspective of the anxious **

‘I don’t think I’ve actually spoken to him before,’ said Ronnie, blinking, as both she and Viktor watched Yuuri scramble away mumbling something about changing the water. The misfortunes of being tall entailed that he had to hunch over when gossiping with her, who was a good head shorter. 

Such a small matter would not stop him, of course. ‘Neither did I, till very recently.’ 

She turned to face him, grey eyes wide, and they shared words in a hushed tone fit for military secrets. 

‘What’s he like?’ 

‘Quiet. You get the feeling he’s observing attentively.’ 

‘The quiet ones always are. What else?’ 

‘Not much, I only just started talking to him this Wednesday.’ 

‘Oh!’ She whisper-exclaimed. ‘I saw you leave after him!’ 

‘Yes! I nearly had him tumble down the stairs though...’ 

‘Haven’t read that chapter of _How To Win Friends And Influence People._’ 

‘Oh, stuff it.’ 

‘His work is always so pretty,’ she said, turning to Yuuri’s eisel now. ‘I’ve missed him.’ 

‘Me too.’ 

\+ 

** Y1S2, W1: god bless the daylight, the sugary smell of springtime **

_I had not seen you then, but you were as charming, on the first and second time as well._

‘Yuuuuri!’ It was a tan young man with black hair who had called. Naturally, Viktor’s eyes found him first. 

Viktor turned, scanning an overcast night sky for the single twinkle of a star amidst the crowded ground floor lobby of students hurrying this way and that. One man stilled and turned; he raised a hesitant arm in greeting to the caller. 

Bespectacled. Blue windbreaker and windpants, black bag slung over one shoulder, dark mop of hair atop his head. Plump and round-faced. 

Unremarkable. The simple grace of a wildflower in a meadow. 

\+ 

** Y2S1, W10, FRIDAY: have you ever felt the warm embrace of the leather seat between your legs **

One moment of madness preceded another. Viktor paced outside of the auditorium like an expectant father. His supervisor had asked him roughly two weeks prior about his giving a demonstration to some visiting international guests. It was a good opportunity to show off his speed and skills. He might’ve been in just a spot of bother, however. It might’ve been because he’d forgotten his tablet, and had only realised it less than half an hour before needing to step in. 

In his defence… he did not have a defence. This was his second year into his master’s programme. He paused at the edge of the lobby, running a hand through his hair, which decidedly uncoiffed it. 

In the midst of his despair, a rather desirable course of action presented itself. He pulled out his phone, and his fingers hovered over the screen. A flush of adrenaline passed through him that even the demonstration he was about to do didn’t inspire. They’d gotten into the habit of regular texting, but they had never actually called before. Certainly, he could not be begrudged this instance, could he? 

The sensation in his stomach only grew worse with every passing ring. 

‘Viktor?’ Another wave of anticipation crested and crashed, even as the tinny voice on the other end pulled a smile onto his features. 

‘Yuuri! I need your help, are you in school?’ The words came out in a rush. He needed to slow down. 

‘Oh, no, I’m not, but I’m close, what did you need?’ 

He pressed his eyes closed, bringing up his other hand to rub the bridge of his nose. ‘I’m sorry for troubling you, it doesn’t matter if you’re not in--’ 

‘--no, but what did you need?’ 

‘You know the guests from that university in Beijing that’re visiting the department today? I’m supposed to give a background demonstration in under 20 minutes. I forgot my tablet and the drive to my place and back isn’t short enough. If you’d been around, I wanted to ask if I could borrow yours, but if--’ 

‘--I’ve got my bag on me, I’ll see you in a bit.’ 

‘Oh, wait, are you sure--’ 

‘Yes, and I’ll hang up now, I’m near Stonestown. Meet me in the carpark.’ And then he was gone, rhythmic beeping in his wake, (arrhythmic beating in Viktor’s chest). 

A slight twinge of guilt pinched his nerves. He wasn’t sure he imagined it, the rushed way in which Yuuri spoke. Had he been in the middle of something? He’d said it was fine, hadn’t he? Viktor combed his fingers through the fringe he’d just messed up and unnecessarily readjusted his suit jacket before hurrying down to the carpark. 

He crossed his arms and tapped his feet. He couldn’t keep the smile off of his face, certain that part of it was the nerves. Every bit of movement had his eyes flicking up at the edge of the road. 

The sun filtered through the leaves in the trees, a dappled shadow carpeting the pavement and road. He uncrossed his arms and tugged on his jacket lapels. The sensitive flashes from the adrenaline only grew. He was going to have to sit down if Yuuri took any longer. 

Then, there came a violent intrusion to his teen-hearted yearnings-- the motorcycle that glided into the lot. The sheen of its handsome, metallic, black hull was positively ringing. They pulled up right in front of Viktor, who stepped back on instinct, eyebrows shooting up his forehead. The roar of the engine ripped into the air as it drowned out the otherwise quiet morning. The rider was donned in midnight itself, stark against the brazen light of day that only caught in gleams on the leather. A blackout helmet shielded his visage from prying eyes. 

They killed the engine, gutting the sound, and kicked out the stand, boot landing with a satisfying crunch on the tar. Gloved hands came up to unbuckle the helmet as the rider tilted back their head. Viktor tracked their every movement, transfixed; his aesthetic sensibilities never failed him. The helmet finally came off. What greeted him were a shock of black hair, completely mussed by the helmet, and a pair of familiar brown eyes. 

Now he really needed to sit down. Viktor was sure he was staring, but he couldn’t help himself. Yuuri was the last person he’d have imagined under all of the gear but good god, if he didn’t look like he was born for wild wind and open roads, sunk in deep scents of old leather and bubbling gasoline. Without his glasses too-- the staggering discrepancy set something aflutter in his belly. 

Yuuri blinked at him once, twice, then the corners of his lips curved into an uncharacteristically self-satisfied smirk. Viktor’s lips parted in a silent gasp. Yuuri following up with a wink would’ve completed the picture. Alas, he did no such thing. It was for the best; if Viktor’s heart skipped any more beats, he’d have to be pronounced clinically dead. 

Yuuri crossed his leg over the vehicle and pulled his bag off of his back. Viktor took a moment to remember why it was that Yuuri had come at all. He reached out a quivering hand, taking what Yuuri was holding out: a laptop sleeve that looked just bigger than A4-sized. 

‘Thank you,’ Viktor croaked out, then cleared his throat, feeling a warmth creeping up his neck that had none to do with the sweet autumn sun beating down. 

Yuuri smiled proper this time, a soft thing, as he zipped up his bag. ‘Good luck.’ 

‘Let me take you to dinner tonight.’ Yuuri’s face tinged just a smidge of pink. _Oh, you and me both--_

‘What--’ 

‘To thank you,’ Viktor added hastily. ‘I owe you.’ 

‘That’s really fine, you don’t have to-- I was already nearby and--’ Yuuri’s fingers dug deeper into the bag that he held between himself and Viktor. 

‘I want to.’ 

Yuuri had always come whenever he’d asked. This time appeared to be no different. 

\+ 

‘Christina darling, I have news,’ rasped Viktor, curled up comfortably in bed. He’d been awake no more than five minutes before he was on the phone. 

Chris hummed from the other end of the line. ‘What possesses thee to summon me at such ghastly an hour as this, prithee?’ 

‘Isn’t it only tennish over there.’ 

‘Ghastly.’ 

‘Be that way.’ 

‘Good morning to you too.’ 

‘Listen, I took him to Cocobang last night! He dropped me off!’ 

‘You finally asked him out? Congratulations!’ 

‘Well, no. It wasn’t a date. More of a thank-you dinner.’ 

‘Ah, so a date then.’ 

‘Why are you the way that you are.’ 

‘I love you too.’ 

‘Chrischrischris-- he rides a bike!! He dropped me off on his bike!’ 

‘Wow. Slut. Easy there, doc.’ 

‘Goodnight.’ 

‘WAIT aren’t you going to tell me how it went?’ 

‘That’s what I thought.’ 

\+ 

The logistics were decided via messaging. Viktor was to drive back to drop off his car, and Yuuri would then pick him up at his place. 

<<_there’s no way Im going to suffer trying to drive into downtown traffic. why dyou think I got a bike in the first place_

Viktor would be the poster child of liars everywhere if he so much as pretended he wasn’t terribly interested in the prospect of riding pillion. And so, on the corner of Judah and 48th, he found himself mired in a bubbling mixture of delight and anticipatory nerves for the second time that day. 

The man of the hour himself turned into the road just then, absolute picture of wicked. Viktor was certain that it was a stretch of the moonless night above wrapped around him, the rumble of engine prologuing his presence already a familiar dopamine hit. 

He didn’t remove his helmet this time, merely sliding up the visor such that the top half of his face was visible. The moment his eyes landed on Viktor, they widened just a little. Was Viktor a little overdressed for ‘just a thank you dinner’? Maybe. But it was inevitable. Firstly, if they were heading downtown, he had to look his best. Secondly, if he was going to dinner with Yuuri, he unquestionably had to look his best. 

Viktor smiled from the heart. He couldn’t see all of Yuuri’s face, but from the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, Viktor decided he must be smiling back. 

Yuuri’s voice came slightly muffled by his helmet. ‘If it wasn’t already getting so dark, I could’ve taken us through Great Highway. Something tells me you’d appreciate the view.’ 

‘Oh, I already am,’ Viktor winked. Yuuri nearly lost his balance. The night was off to a great start. 

Yuuri pulled out another helmet and a spare pair of gloves from the tailcase. Viktor slipped on the helmet, visor up, and started fiddling with the buckle. His fingers were icy enough, without the incessant wind numbing them to uselessness. It didn’t help that he hadn’t put on one of these in a while. The universe, however, was truly blessing Viktor on this fine night, for Yuuri tired of watching him fumble for a bit, pulled off his gloves, and proffered a hand. 

‘I’ll do it?’ 

Viktor felt Yuuri’s trembling fingers brush against his neck, warmth blossoming at the pinpricks of contact. He pressed his eyes closed for a moment. It was far too soon that Yuuri was done looping the strap and tightening, pressing the button together with a satisfying _click_. He put his gloves back on, Viktor doing the same with the pair he was given. He made sure to tuck his scarf in his coat and button up. 

Yuuri leaned forward, making room for Viktor to mount. Everything since Yuuri had arrived had already been happening in bullet time, but this stopped the earth’s turning on her axis. He swung his leg over the seat and felt his soul cross the _Smorodina_ as Yuuri leaned back and settled. 

‘Hold onto me,’ Yuuri said, facing forward, just audible over the engine and the din of traffic from the beachside. Viktor was suddenly the most amenable person in the West coast. He leant fully against his back without a single qualm, arms wrapped around his waist well and snug. 

\+ 

A taste of primeval freedom, of road and wind unfiltered by the hull of a car’s shielding; they were flying. Yuuri skillfully weaved them through the vehicles whirring by. Viktor felt a nervous thrill flood his system every time the centripetal forces dipped the vehicle through speedy turns. He dug his fingers deeper into Yuuri’s jacket. 

They passed the greenery-flanked Fulton Street into the heart of the city, coloured lights painting streaks in their wake. He attempted to rest his head on Yuuri’s shoulder, but their helmets clacked together and he pulled back immediately, pursing his lips. 

Alas, it appeared Yuuri had been right about the bike being faster, for they were far too soon arrived at their destination. Viktor peeled himself from Yuuri, reluctance heightened by the cold that filled the growing space between them. 

He tried to return the gloves, but Yuuri shook his head. ‘Hang onto them for now.’ 

He pocketed them instead. Yuuri packed both helmets in the tailcase, but did not remove his jacket. 

‘Vic’s cleaners,’ Viktor smiled, pointing at what was an excellently named (in his indisputable opinion) dry cleaning establishment. It got a laugh out of Yuuri. They parked the bike in one of the available spaces near this store, across the road from Cocobang’s.  


Testament to its good food, there was always a queue and a short period of waiting before one was seated here. In the meantime, both men stood pressed side by side from the nightly winds, hands deep in their pockets. They pondered over the menu on display on the window for a bit before eventually settling to chatter about other matters. It invariably settled on school and things related, as it was often wont to do with students who were heavily preoccupied with their coursework and none much else.  


When they were finally inside and seated, they ordered. Yuuri looked around, taking it all in, while Viktor watched the light from the television screen dance in his eyes and flicker over the soft features of his face. Yuuri finally turned back to Viktor, who poured them both water from the jug set on the table. 

‘Care for a Gerard Manley Hopkins?’ 

‘A what?’ 

Viktor grinned. ‘Poetry. He’s a poet.’ 

It was a tendency of humans to laugh, not the joyful kind, but the awkward, confused kind, especially when presented with an unexpected matter that one had no immediate response to. Nevertheless a social lubricant, this was the sort of small laughter that escaped Yuuri’s lips right then. Viktor could tell you this with some certainty from their time together, information pulled from page three of the catalogue in his mind, in the section purely reserved for Yuuri’s various laughs. _Starting trouble. Retrea--_

‘I do like poetry, though if you asked me any by name, I couldn’t tell you.’ Yuuri cocked his head just so. ‘No, wait, I do know the one about onions.’ 

‘Oh, I love that one. It’s got sass.’ 

‘...something about having layers...’ Yuuri picked up his glass to take a sip. 

‘I think that one’s Shrek.’ Yuuri gracelessly snorted into his water, then ducked his head. Viktor chuckled. Yuuri cleared his throat, and picked up his cloth napkin to dab at his mouth. Sufficiently satisfied, he put it down and clasped his hands in front of him, face impassive. 

Viktor reached over slowly to pick up Yuuri’s napkin. Yuuri’s eyes followed his movement. 

‘What--’ 

‘--you missed a spot.’ 

Viktor pressed the cloth to Yuuri’s lips, and held it there. He looked straight into Yuuri’s eyes, leaning in just imperceptibly so. ‘Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips.’ The timbre of his voice descended several decibels. ‘Possessive and faithful.’ A soft rub towards the corner of Yuuri’s mouth. ‘As we are.’ A thumb brushing over Yuuri’s cheek. ‘For as long as we are.’ 

Neither party moved for a couple of heartbeats. To Yuuri’s credit, his voice maintained a deadpan cadence, even as his face tinted redberry juniper. 

‘That from Shrek too?’ 

‘Valentine.’ 

‘The onion one?’ 

‘The onion one,’ Viktor whispered. 

‘I somehow don’t remember it being that...’ 

‘...sensuous?’ 

‘I was going to say dramatic.’ 

‘It will blind you with tears like a lover.’ 

‘Still the onion one?’ 

‘Still the onion one.’ 

‘Why do you know the onion poem by heart.’ They were both whispering now. 

‘So I live with this person--’ 

Someone cleared their throat beside them. Both of them turned. It was the waiter, returned with their food. ‘Tofu soup and Kimchi fried rice, sirs.’ 

Viktor retracted his arm so that the waiter could put the dishes down. The man left without a word. The food steamed, hot as it was, tantalising. Viktor still had Yuuri’s napkin, still had on his mind the feeling of Yuuri’s face under his fingers, the napkin a membrane-thin barrier between them. A thickness in the air. Viktor couldn’t give the napkin back now, so he picked up the spoon instead. 

‘You live so close to the beach!’ said Yuuri, suddenly, and all at once, normalcy resumed. 

‘Yeah, I share it with someone; it was a steal. I didn’t expect I’d be able to get a place so lovely.’ 

‘I can imagine,’ Yuuri said, taking the first bite of his rice. His nose scrunched up just a little, and he let out a soft hum. ‘This is good.’ 

‘Want to try some of mine?’ Viktor asked, holding up a spoonful of soup. 

‘Sure,’ Yuuri said. Disappointingly, he did not lean forward, but instead took the soup spoon from his hand. Their fingers brushed, and again, there was that spark setting Viktor’s nerves alight. Yuuri took a sip, and quietly passed it back. ‘The soup is good too,’ he added, nodding. 

‘By the way, Yuuri, where do _you_ stay?’ Viktor started again. 

‘Oh,’ Yuuri paused, spoon hovering in front of his face. He brought it down again. ‘Just off of the highway, actually. I found a rental with a housemate in one of the houses beside campus. He does photography.’ 

‘Just off of the highway?’ Viktor’s brows furrowed as he too now stilled for a moment. 

‘Behind 19th.’ 

‘Near Holloway--’ 

‘--Stratford.’ 

‘Ah. Got it,’ Viktor nodded, finally drinking another spoonful of soup, his best impersonation of casual. ‘You’re right next to campus. No wonder I’ve never seen your bike.’ 

‘I always walk, yeah.’ 

The waiter stopped by to bring Viktor’s apple soju. Yuuri had insisted he was fine with just the rice, and he couldn’t drink anyway if he was the one taking them back. 

‘Your roommate in photography. Do I know him?’ 

‘Unlikely. And that person you said you lived with-- A student or…?’ 

‘Student, absolute turkey, currently away on a medical mission and won’t be back till the start of next summer.’ 

‘A med student,’ Yuuri raised his eyebrows. ‘That sounds stressful.’ 

‘Oh, you don’t know the things I’ve seen.’ Viktor took the first sip of his soju. 

\+ 

Conversation flowed as easily as the soju Viktor was downing, their artistic parlance dropped entirely. In fact, this was the first time they were spending time together that didn’t involve a room full of people cultishly seated in intense observation round a naked human being. Finally, finally on the cusp of Yuuri’s enigma-- And yet, the crucible was still too cold for Viktor himself to bare heart, as much as the words sat in his throat. They’d known each other two months, maybe three. Too long or too short? Leaning back in his chair, he poured himself yet another glass. Watching a jovial Yuuri natter on animatedly, a lightness like the spiralling lazy leaves of autumn graced him, despite his ruminations. 

Viktor was just a little overwarm, the combined effects of the crowded space and the alcohol finally causing a twinge of discomfort. Yuuri must’ve started to feel the stuffiness too, because he was finally removing his jacket, (along with it the last vestiges of drunk-Viktor’s composure in Yuuri’s presence). The incline of Yuuri’s collarbone came into view, leading into firm shoulders, visible through the long-sleeved shirt he was wearing. Yuuri turned to hang the jacket over the back of his chair, and Viktor let himself indulge in the twist of his spine for a moment, the bunching trapezius, his right scapula rising with the movement of his arm... How utterly dehydrating, the effects of alcohol. 

Viktor closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose with one hand, fingers tapping in a wave along the glass he had gripped tight in the other. His heart thrummed like rain on a sidewalk. 

‘You alright, Viktor?’ 

‘Hm?’ He looked up, lowering his hand. The look of slight worry in Yuuri’s eyes set his shame in stone and he quickly pulled on a smile. ‘I’m fine.’ 

Yuuri looked as though he was going to say something else, but instead just took a sip of his own water. 

‘You know, I never pegged you a biker,’ Viktor started again. Good choice-- Yuuri’s eyes glimmered with excitement. 

‘I’ve always loved the idea of riding through the open roads on a bike.’ 

‘Feels a bit like flying.’ 

‘Doesn’t it?’ 

‘So, been on any long road trips then?’ 

‘As far as the east end of Tioga Pass,’ Yuuri said, puffing up with pride. 

Viktor let out a low whistle. ‘Wow.’ 

‘Turned back before Lee Vining.’ 

‘Oh, of course, that’s for another day,’ Viktor grinned, ‘for that casual drive down to Nevada.’ 

Yuuri laughed. ‘It’s only because it’d taken us so long already, and we did spend a fair bit of time in Yosemite.’ 

‘We?’ 

‘My roommate and I.’ 

Viktor felt a pang of envy at the mental image of Yuuri and this yet unknown person. Immediately, he shoved it into the deepest recesses of his mind, alongside such lovely companions as Yakov’s anger, healthy emotional management, and the smell of melting butter. 

‘So this was recent, then?’ He asked, still smiling, finally setting down the soju in preference for water. 

‘Just last July actually,’ Yuuri said. ‘I’d been saving up all through high school and finally got a decent touring bike secondhand. Made some shorter trips both north and south of here on Highway 1 before last summer, but this was the first long one proper.’ 

‘Gosh, the views are to die for,’ Viktor said, memories frothing at the fringes of his mind. The neverending stretches of land cradled by the Pacific, the voice of his mother-- 

‘Viktor?’ 

‘Hm?’ 

‘What about you? Do you like road trips?’ 

‘Oh, but I wanted to hear about all your travelling!’  
  
Yuuri laughed, ‘Viktor, I’ve been talking about myself all evening. I want to hear about you.’ 

Viktor blinked. The request was unfamiliar, but one that he was more than willing to oblige nonetheless. Well, sans Pinole. Not yet. 

\+ 

The food sat a comfortable warmth in his belly, but his fingers felt the night air so keenly his knuckles stiffened. ‘Haha, look, Vic’s cleaners--’ Viktor said as they stepped out into the cold again. 

Yuuri snorted. ‘That third bottle of soju is doing you wonders.’ 

‘Are you judging me?’ Viktor placed a hand over his chest. 

‘Oh, trust me, I’m the last person who would--’ 

‘--Kawasaki, that’s a Kawasaki, right?’ Viktor cut in, frowning at the bike parked across the road. A smile teased the corners of Yuuri’s lips. It belatedly occurred to him they’d already had this conversation. He felt Chris’s judgment making the transpacific journey just to clout him about the ears. 

‘Yuuri, hold my hand, let’s cross,’ he chirped with a saccharine smile. 

Yuuri’s eyebrows kicked up his forehead, but he took his hand anyway, guiding him safely across the road. Viktor was never going to wash his hand again. 

Viktor pulled on the helmet. ‘Buckle it for me?’ 

‘You’re, I-- okay,’ Yuuri conceded. He felt his fingers on his neck like the brush of a cat’s greeting, transient by nature, and almost-immediately gone. An empty craving was left in his wake, of splayed fingers, wrapped around his throat. 

Viktor held the gloves in his teeth by the index fingers, buttoning up his coat first while his dexterity was yet unhindered. Finally, as he was pulling on the gloves, he distantly wondered why Yuuri was suddenly so red in the face. 

He cocked his head at Yuuri. ‘Ready?’ 

‘Yes,’ Yuuri croaked in a half-whisper, turning away before he snapped his own visor down. 

They were on the move again, engine roaring to life. Viktor felt keenly every bump in the road, every brake of the engine that had him pressed flush against Yuuri. He had no attention to spare for the scenery this time, a wandering mind emboldened by the soju still in his veins. He yearned to run his hands over Yuuri’s chest, wanted to kiss the back of his neck, press his lips to every vertebrae, right down to his dimples of Venus and-- and Yuuri would most likely swerve them both into the afterlife. 

Viktor couldn’t remember when they reached beachside again, surprised by the waves’ restless churning, as though he’d expected the sea to retire for the night as well. Yuuri stopped the bike on Viktor’s driveway, and when Viktor made no further move, helped him out of his helmet and gloves. 

‘Absolute gentleman,’ Viktor cooed, and Yuuri rolled his eyes at him. ‘You should stay here, we can head down to the session tomorrow morning together.’ 

Yuuri made to speak, but shut his mouth again. And then: ‘I-- I have to get my portfolio and things. I’ll just meet you directly.’ 

‘Shame,’ Viktor sighed, then piped up again, grabbing hold of Yuuri’s hands. ‘But if you didn’t have to do all that, you would have stayed, yes?’ 

‘Um.’ 

‘Coward.’ 

‘Why are you like this.’ 

Viktor threw back his head and laughed. He let go of Yuuri’s hands and stepped back, waving. ‘I’ll see you first thing, then--’ He truncated himself, tripping on the landing stair, nearly losing his balance. Yuuri reached out, but Viktor regained his balance by himself. 

\+ 

Yuuri might’ve tucked Viktor in that night, with a glass of water by his bedside. Viktor dreamt of his sweet smile, and sweeter still: the taste of his lips on his own as Viktor’s hands roamed. Shame morning had to come so soon, bringing with it the headache that was both the hangover and the force of reality. 

+  


** Y2S1, W10, SATURDAY: yawn into me a lacuna **

‘About that, Viktor,’ began Yuuri.

‘Oh, you can call me Vitya,’ Viktor said cheerfully. He felt as though he’d swallowed the dirty paint water and it was going to come back with a vengeance any moment. ‘I said as much last night, didn’t I?’

‘Right, you did,’ Yuuri said, then a long pause. ‘I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t just a while-drunk thing--’

‘It wasn’t.’ A smile.

Yuuri fingered the bristles of the brush he’d just wiped down, smoothing the stray ones back in line. ‘Are you alright, Vik-- Vitya? You seem a little...’

‘Hungover,’ Viktor finished, the disquiet beginning to dissolve in the way Yuuri’s voice painted his name, ‘just a bit of a headache.’

‘Maybe I should stop you at the second bottle next time,’ Yuuri quipped.

‘Just cut me off at the pass,’ he lilted back, but it rang empty. He could only assume he’d mucked it all up somehow. The bother of it was that he couldn’t even remember well enough through the night’s drunken haze what the offence was. He began rolling up his newsprint sheets. The flimsy paper rustled noisily in the empty room. ‘You were about to say something just now?’

‘It’s nothing,’ said Yuuri, and he looked away, packing up his brushes. ‘It’s that time of sem again. Deadlines, exams, and things. So I won’t be seeing you this coming Wednesday, is all.’

Viktor turned to Yuuri, who was now collecting all of his tools into his bag, the sheets already in his portfolio. Of course, Yuuri wouldn’t have time to show up to the remaining sessions while dealing with the deadline crunch. That made sense. His frosty demeanor and lack of eye contact did not. He’d been late by an hour. Didn’t respond to any of Viktor’s messages or the one missed call that he’d dared (and regretted upon being greeted with Yuuri’s un-customised voicemail greeting.) 

‘Vitya.’

Viktor popped out of his thoughts. ‘Yes.’

‘Does your head hurt?’ Yuuri was finally looking at him.

‘No,’ said Viktor, ‘and I appreciate the painkillers you left for me.’

‘Oh, you’re welcome. Sorry for being a bother about it, you were frowning, is all.’ 

Viktor winced. ‘Right,’ he clapped his hands together, taking a deep breath to clear his head. ‘Lunch, then, Yuuri?’

‘Yeah, let’s go.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ❅ The sub-title **‘god bless the daylight, the sugary smell of springtime’** is from the song [We Looked Like Giants by Death Cab for Cutie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5tIVVEIdu2g).
> 
> ❅ The sub-title **‘have you ever felt the warm embrace of the leather seat between your legs’** is from the song [Downtown by Macklemore & Ryan Lewis](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JGhoLcsr8GA).
> 
> ❅ The bike I had in mind for Yuuri was the Kawasaki Vulcan 1700 Voyager ABS.

**Author's Note:**

> ❅ Feel free to let me know of typos


End file.
